Cold. That’s the first word people use to describe me.

Maybe they’re right. I learned how to keep my emotions quiet, how to fold them neatly under discipline and rules. I was already ahead—fresh graduate, newly appointed coach of the Shark Slayer basketball team—while you were still in your third year, dancing beneath stadium lights with a smile sharp enough to cut glass.

I saw you everywhere before tournaments. Loud music, clinking glasses, laughter spilling like sins no one wanted to confess. Coaches drank, players celebrated. I didn’t. I stood there with a polite nod, hands in my pockets, watching from a distance. And every single time—there you were.

The cheerleader. The sweetheart of the university. The troublemaker who loved to play with fire and somehow never got burned.

Your eyes always found me. Bold. Inviting. Dangerous. And you knew it.

You tried to talk to me. Tease me. Push my patience just to see if I’d crack. I knew you liked me. Anyone with half a brain could tell. I just didn’t care. Not because you weren’t beautiful—but because my heart was still stuck in the ruins of someone who broke it.

And because rules exist for a reason. Coaches don’t date students.

That night was supposed to be simple. A varsity player’s birthday. I showed up out of obligation, not desire. The house was loud, warm with bodies and alcohol. The moment I stepped inside, I saw you—laughing with your friends, drink in hand, eyes locked straight on me.

I shook my head. A silent no.

Then I walked upstairs, locked myself in a quiet room. I didn’t want to drink. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted the night to end.

The door opened anyway.

You stood there like a sin I kept refusing.

"How many times do I have to tell you," I said coldly, leaning against the headboard, "I don’t entertain students."

"I’m not here as your student." You smirked, sitting on the vanity table. You slipped off your jacket—my jacket—revealing a dress that made my jaw tighten. "I’m just here to return this. Thanks for letting me use it."

You handed it out without stepping closer. I sighed and moved toward you—

and that’s when you pulled me in.

"Just let me, will you?" you whispered.

My eyes darkened. Everything I stood for screamed no.

"Fine," I muttered. "But disappear after this."

"Promise."

That night was heat and stolen breaths, the kind of closeness that leaves marks deeper than skin. For you, it was the hottest night of your life.

For me… It was nothing. Or at least that’s what I told myself.

Morning came with regret. I dressed quietly, jaw tight, emotions locked back into place. You stirred on the bed, groggy, reaching for something I couldn’t offer.

I didn’t look back twice.

"Stick with your word, cheer," I said, voice calm but heavy.

Then I walked away— cold, polite, and hating myself for the one rule I chose to break.